


The Fandom has Attacked

by Jen (ConsultingWriters)



Category: James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: 00Q - Freeform, 00Silva is referenced, And another chapter, Breaking fourth wall, Crack, EVERYTHING is referenced, Fandom, Fanfic, Humour, M/M, Not My Fault, but still, everything from cat!Q to mpreg, oh god I'm SO SORRY, this was way too much fun, well it kindof is
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-28 03:12:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingWriters/pseuds/Jen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The James Bond initiative had been created as a way of romanticising MI6. Turning failed missions into myths. Keeping 'James Bond' a figurehead - an idea, not a person. The legacy of MI6 without the reality.</p><p>The Skyfall incident was made into a film. And now, Q has discovered something... rather frightening.</p><p>Chapter Two: In which Moneypenny is <i>going to die</i>, Tanner is very good at fanart, M has joined in with the trolling, and Q is about to spontaneously combust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse. I really don't. It should have been a simple prompt. Then this happened.

“007. My office, _right now._ ”

Bond sauntered into the room with his usual smarmy arrogance and lack of tact. Q was settled at his computer, a strange, chalk-white colour that he usually only reserved for monitoring of a mission where an agent was compromised, or whenever he caught sight of whatever Bond had massacred of his equipment. “How can I be of assistance?” Bond asked with a wry smirk.

Q gestured at the computer, hands flapping wildly. “007, the fandom has attacked.”

“This is probably the moment where I should take a seat, yes?” Bond asked wearily. He wondered if this was Q’s slightly confused idea of a mission brief, involving terminology he wasn’t yet aware of, and – it seemed – some knowledge of computers.

Q gave a long, steady exhale. “Alright. James, you must listen.”

It was bad. Q only used first names when he was delivering bad news; somebody had died, compromised agent, compromised intel, Friday night drinks were cancelled. Anything monumental.

“Do you understand the basic premise of the Bond Initiative?”

He did, yes. The Bond Initiative was based on Bond’s absolute refusal to use false names, and the acquired legacy from the afore-mentioned refusal. Every terrorist group in existence knew the name James Bond; MI6 decided it was about time to take it in their stride, and spawned an entire James Bond ‘fandom’, as Q apparently called it.

Bond was challenged on the name every once in a while, but once he proved that he actually _was_ James Bond, whoever he was speaking to tended to be impressed. He was a trained secret agent, after all – it didn’t change his job description, it just made conversations occasionally a little longer when he had to explain that _yes_ , he was a _genuine_ secret agent named James Bond.

Not to mention, the cult phenomenon had meant he could get into bed with literally anybody in the world, regardless of gender, and even sexual orientation from time to time. That was certainly a perk of the Initiative.

“We have an issue with it,” Q said, grimly understating matters. Bond raised an eyebrow.

“What type of issue?”

Q sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took a moment, returning his gaze to Bond. “Well. Context: I am the youngest Quartermaster in MI6 history. For the most recent instalment of the Bond Initiative franchise, they decided to capitalise on that. So rather than emulating the fusty old men who used to run Q-branch, they wrote a character who is a perfect imitation of myself. As yours is an imitation of you.”

“In this version,” Bond snorted. “God, the dark-haired git about a decade ago…”

“Stop,” Q snapped. “Bond, you are _missing the point_. They cast a _version of me_ , and the film has been released, they tried to make the bloody Skyfall incident into fable to cover over our actual fuck-up, and you and I are both involved.”

Bond was really far too tired for this, and the Skyfall disaster still stung, even two years on. Still, it was good that MI6 had done _something_ to cover it; on film, nobody would believe it had ever _actually_ happened.

“And?” he asked, when Q continued to stare at him, wide-eyed. Q cursed in about four different languages, spun the screen around to him. “They cast you well. I still don’t like my counterpart though,” Bond snorted, looking the dark-haired, geeky kid on screen, and the blonde man that was his doppelganger. He had never seen the films, but by all accounts, they were rather good.

The penny dropped with an audible _clunk_. “… What am I doing to you, in that image?”

“That is a photo manipulation of you and I having sexual intercourse,” Q told him, in a clinical, snapping voice. His eyes were slightly bug-like, close to popping, jaw tight and incredibly tense.

Bond was rendered completely and entirely speechless.

“But you’re…”

“Yes.”

“And I’m…”

“Yes,” Q agreed, and once again gestured helplessly at the computer. “Bond, there is a small but dedicated core people who ‘ship’ us. Which means, in English, that they believe we should be in some form of romantic and/or sexual relationship.”

Bond was silent for a very long few minutes. “… Why?”

Q shrugged. “It happens. It’s not uncommon, but some of this is graphic. And imaginative, and not entirely fair at points. In most of this, I’ve shrunk about six inches, lost half my bodyweight, my age fluctuates between about eighteen and thirty, I have no life whatsoever barring my compulsive need to programme pointless and often very implausible programmes, and just to top this bloody nightmare off, I defer to _you_ in most instances. Including sex, which isn’t actually something I needed to know.”

Bond gave a snort of laughter; Q was one of most lethal killers Bond would probably ever meet, had never done anything illogical or unnecessary in all the time Bond had known him, and if he deferred to anybody, he had never once done so in Bond’s earshot.

“I wouldn’t laugh,” Q commented dryly. “You’re an alcoholic sex maniac, emotionally stunted, aging in a way that quietly implies you’re pushing fifty, your relationship with the old M is… questionable, at best. And you cheat on me a _lot_. Plus, I don’t know what’s going on with Silva, but I’m both confused and a little bit disgusted.”

“How much of this have you looked at, exactly?!” Bond asked, more than a little bit alarmed; Q was casually bandying about ‘shipping’ and ‘Silva’ – the latter of which he had hoped to not hear much about again – without realising that Bond simply didn’t understand. At all. Not even a little bit.

Q didn’t flinch. “A fair amount,” he told Bond primly. He wondered whether to add a line about ‘ample research’ and ‘the scale of the problem’, but really, this was bad enough as it was without Bond getting ideas.

“And how did you even _find it_?!”

Q’s cheeks went very faintly rose-tinted; he was twenty-four, and had always been a computer obsessive. He would have had to be rather poor at his job to not know about things like ‘fanfiction’ and ‘fanart’ and all variations thereupon. Media played a tremendous role in espionage. The media was the single quickest way to destroy any given mission. Q used that excuse to justify his slightly less ‘professional’ interests.

Q was a Doctor Who fan himself. He would go to his grave flatly denying anything about a lonely account on a Doctor Who fanfiction website with a series of stories about the Doctor and Rose, and occasionally Jack Harkness, and very frequently Jack Harkness and Ianto Jones.

He had found a crossover, in the form of Harry Potter AU’s. Things went substantially downhill from there.

Speaking of which: “Is that Sherlock Holmes?” Bond asked curiously, watching the reflection in the window, seeing an odd photograph that was unmistakeably Sherlock Holmes, the new TV series version with the slightly strangely proportioned face.

“Yes. Please don’t get me started. He’s not delighted about this either, apparently I’m his younger brother,” Q muttered, chewing his nails. Bond took a heartbeat too long to work out that Q meant that _Sherlock Holmes was real_.

“And are you?!”

Q shot Bond a look of such unbridled vitriol that really, Bond didn’t have an option but to stop talking; Q was not above rigging bits and pieces of his equipment to explode for no reason other than petty revenge schemes.

Bond stood, moving to the other side of Q’s desk and watching over his shoulder. “What site is that?” Bond asked, looking at the blue-rimmed screen, the individual bubbles of text and pictures that floated onscreen.

“It’s a blogging platform. A relatively simple way to assess the movement of a fandom,” Q explained, still a little bit too familiar with the terminology for Bond to miss. “Our relationship is known as 00Q.”

“Catchy.”

Another look of sheer murderous intent.

“Not catchy, Bond, problematic.”

“Why?” Bond asked, snorting as he saw snippets of text that read like a fast-paced novella, a film review, more pictures than he knew were possible of the pair of them, their film selves plastered and intercut with one another. He was actually finding the whole thing relatively funny.

Q looked at Bond. Continued looking. Waited until Bond had caught his eye properly. “What?”

“Moneypenny,” Q said, very simply. Bond’s eyes widened.

“ _Shit_.”

“Precisely,” Q retorted. “And if you decide this is _funny_ , I’ll link her through to 00Silva.”

“What?!”

“The other ship _you’ve_ inherited. Apparently, it’s plausible, in some universe or another, that you could end up in a relationship with _Silva_.”

“But he…”

“I’m aware. His assault seems to be the basic premise of your _entire relationship_ , which is concerning, at best,” Q ranted, turning an intriguingly hilarious shade of fuchsia. Bond felt vaguely nauseated by that particular prospect, but didn’t have the scope to indulge his disgust; Q was still ranting.

“Speaking of which, do you have _any idea_ how many times I’ve been tortured? Kidnapped?”

“In real life, or…?”

“ _Don’t be facetious_ ,” Q shrieked at him.

Bond looked skywards, breathing deeply. Q was past the point of coherency, or indeed rational thought. Bond was not completely certain he knew what he was doing that constituted ‘being facetious’, but pushing the point would probably reduce his life expectancy.

Q stabbed at several keys, bringing up pages and _pages_ of text, in particular, one hyperlink on the blue-background site which claimed ‘omg nsfw’.

Bond’s head browsed through acronyms, and found ‘oh my god’ for the first past. He couldn’t have told Q what the second part meant at gunpoint.

_Bond’s throbbing length breached…_

“Oh my god.”

There was radio silence, which was probably wise. Both of them read the story in question.

Their heads cocked to the left at one point. Q was still pale, lip curled in mild disgust and very real panic. Bond looked politely curious. At one stage, his eyebrow raised slightly, and his mouth crooked in a vague smirk.

Q was close to tears, voice trying to remain supercilious. “That’s not even physically…”

“ _Shh_.”

Q looked at Bond with alarm. “What?!”

“Shh. Reading.”

“You can’t be…”

“You were. You read faster,” Bond pointed out, as he read of Q screaming Bond’s name, of pounding into this tight young Quartermaster, of coming deep inside him while Q whimpered for release, of…

He swallowed slightly. Shifted a little where he sat. Thanked several gods for good tailoring. 

Q’s face was kaleidoscoping through colours at a phenomenal speed, ranging from a deep crimson to a pasty yellow-green. Bond had remained relatively constant, but then, he was better at this.

They both stayed very unnaturally still, for a long while. “… You’re aroused,” Q rasped.

An accurate assessment, yes. Oddly, watching and/or reading pornography of one’s doppelganger was exceptionally sexually appealing. Bond wasn’t that resentful, if he was completely honest.

“Bond, we need to do something,” Q said carefully. “I can block this from most of MI6, but if the fandom expands…”

Bond sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, feeling mildly desperate. “It’s false,” Bond said, stating the bleeding obvious. “All of these allegations, this… whatever _this_ is… it’s false. If we can bar MI6, than the rest is…”

“And if somebody finds this, decides it’s a true depiction of our relationship?” Q asked, still scanning through frankly pornographic images, a lot of text posts, all sorts. “It puts both of us in a questionable position.”

Bond sighed. “Does M know?”

“I truly pray not.”

“We should tell him,” Bond shrugged. “We can then start with damage control, presumably. Wait, _wait_ , scroll back…”

Q did as told. Both of them read the paragraphs of text, the accompanying images, and gasped slightly. “I’m not even going to ask what drugs that person is on,” Bond murmured. “Can we intervene? Arrest them?”

Q laughed hysterically. “A worldwide social media platform, brought down due to specious allegations about us? I dare you to plug that to M.”

Silence, once again.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Q moaned aloud, collapsing forward onto his desk, leaving the screen open on a picture of himself as a cat. A cat-human hybrid, it seemed. Q, as a cat-human-person. Really, it offended all possible sense, or indeed reason.

Bond couldn’t blame Q for being upset. He would be too, if he was being portrayed as a cat-human.

“We’ll work something out,” Bond said carefully, patting Q gently on the head. Q wailed slightly, the sound vaguely muffled. “There will be something we can feasibly do, there must be.”

Q gave another whine, waving Bond away. Bond rolled his eyes, watching Q whimper to himself. His phone rang; he had a look at the incoming message, in honest confusion.

“Q?”

Q groaned, lifting his head with what looked like severe difficulty.

“Moneypenny contacted me. Do you know what, erm… ‘mpreg’, is?”

Q looked at him, turned vaguely green. Literally, green in the sense of being _about to vomit_. “Please no. Please, _please_ no. Tell me she’s lying, _you have to tell me she’s lying_.”

Bond shrugged. Q reached forward, expression livid. He picked up his favourite desk pin, clicked it, threw it. Bond ducked for cover.

Q caused a lot of damage. He felt a little bit better. Bond burned his arm. He felt a _lot_ better.

Q was a technological genius. He could bring down the world in a matter of keystrokes. A blogging site, fanfiction sites, art sites; they were just nothing, as compared to CIA internal servers. He would not allow this to lie.

God _damn it_ , he would have his revenge.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is ENTIRELY virtualoutcast's fault. She asked for more crack, along these lines. I - seeking crack!fic to distract from angst and heavy-duty fic - obliged. This happened. I have no excuse. I'm sorry.

_“BOND, GET IN HERE!”_

Q had one hell of a pair of lungs on him when he wanted; Bond’s head rattled with the impact, Q’s voice directly through his earpiece, turning him temporarily deaf in his left ear.

He really had no choice. Bond obediently made his way to Q-branch, pushed open the office door, and found Q collapsed in his desk chair with a look somewhere between absolute hysteria, and the kind of anger that could prove very dangerous to passers-by.

“As forecast, Moneypenny is plotting to make our lives unliveable. Actually, amend that – _my_ life. You appear completely impervious to the repercussive effects…”

“You have to calm down,” Bond told Q; Q went abruptly silent, and very dangerously still. Bond wondered whether patronising Q was genuinely an unforgivable infraction; the Q-branch kids spoke of his fury with awe and terror, and Bond was just about beginning to understand why.

Q’s screensaver was a rather pornography image of himself and Bond, mid-coitus. It was a testimony to the power of Q-branch combined that Q hadn’t managed to get rid of it yet. “Whenever I remove it, another image appears,” Q hissed, quieter than Bond knew was possible. “While I have to admire the technical expertise of my branch, I’m going to kill them.”

Death threats. Ok. Matters were degenerating quite quickly, then. Death threats were really never good in the hands of somebody who could follow through without really trying.

“Ok. We should probably bring this to M’s attention. Q-branch should probably be investing their time more wisely,” Bond pointed out. “If we can get a mass injunction on anything to do with this…”

“Double-oh Q,” Q spat hatefully.

“… that, then things may improve. I’m not delighted either. Tanner made a comment about my ‘shapely pectorals’, and your opinion thereof. Not necessarily what I needed to hear.”

Q took a steadying breath. “Duly noted. Shall we?”

-

They discovered that somebody had rigged the lift to play the ‘Skyfall’ theme song on loop. Q vowed revenge in colourful language.

-

Q had done his best to suppress the fandom. As compared to the Unholy Trinity of ‘Sherlock’, ‘Doctor Who’ and ‘Supernatural’ – the first two he knew from various popular culture references, the third not even appearing on his radar – their little 00Q nightmare was quite small. Q had consequently considered it a relatively easy thing to destroy.

Yet no matter what he did, it kept cropping back up again. He started targeting prolific fanartists, who found their tablets and scanners jammed, or ‘interrupted signal’, and they swore profusely and kicked at things, and then downloaded it on a friend’s computer. Once it hit the internet, trying to completely suppress it was nigh on impossible.

He succeeded in upsetting a number of individuals whose word processors died, whose internet connection faded out, et cetera. It barely dented the fandom as a whole.

The fandom was inexorably growing. And in the interim, Q-branch, Moneypenny, and now apparently Tanner, were all conspiring to stamp on Q’s sanity with a vengeance. He didn’t know what in the hell he had done to deserve this, but their retribution was damn thorough.

Q also had a sneaking, unfortunate suspicion that somebody rather talented was interfering. The worst sites – ‘tumblr’, ‘deviantart’, ‘an archive of our own’ and ‘livejournal’ – seemed to be surviving even the worst of his technological onslaughts. It shouldn’t have been possible, unless the sites were being protected by somebody with rather good computer skills.

He was already tracing back the source, with a reliable programme of his own – it should have completed by the time he returned from M’s office.

“Come in,” M called, as Bond knocked on his office door. He looked up, seeing both of them; Q’s heart dropped through his stomach as M started to laugh. “It really is impossible to part you two.”

“No,” Q said immediately, striding into the room, coincidentally trying to get as much distance between himself and Bond as humanly possible. “You are _not_ a part of this?!”

“A part of what?” M asked, with a type of deliberate innocence that doesn’t even faintly suit him.

Q took a deep breath, lips narrowing. “We need to stop the Bond Initiative,” he told M, voice razor sharp and entirely merciless. “It has got completely out of hand, and is making a mockery of our intelligence service.”

M nodded, pretended to consider the suggestion. “The Bond Initiative is a worldwide franchise, believed by most to be entirely fiction. It has some mirrors to our actual workings, for the sake of throwing foreign services; they are disinclined to believe that our organisation is in any respect similar to a work of fiction. It has been a great help in covering some of our… less auspicious moments, shall we say. Why, precisely, would I wish to shut it down?”

Q looked almost tearful. “There has to be…”

“I am aware of the new trend around the office,” M conceded, barely able to contain a smirk; behind Q, Bond had gone one step further, and was stifling outright laughter. Bond just wasn’t concerned, if he was honest. He had been the subject of a worldwide franchise for years; he was used to his name being used abortively, to absurd jokes.

True, homosexuality was new. True, any in-office romance was new. True, he had never seen himself displayed pornographically, but he had an odd feeling that had probably happened in the past regardless.

He had briefly considered being offended by Q’s reaction. He just didn’t have the energy. It was taking a good deal of his self-control to not laugh, and a lot more of his patience to try and calm his Quartermaster. There was no energy left to be offended.

M snorted slightly, as Q started on a diatribe about office interpersonal relationships, office conduct, office bullying, misuse of time, misuse of equipment. M lasted as long as ‘office conduct’ before finally laughing. Bond choked on air, earning him a look from Q that promised pain.

Q stormed out of the office M stopped laughing long to let Bond know that R had been defending the servers of the major sites, three Q-branch kids had rigged the lift and most radio stations to play ‘ _Skyfall_ ’ on repeat, Moneypenny had interfered with a slew of fanfiction that another couple of ambitious Q-branch kids had been streaming directly to Q’s mobile.

The last part was new information; Q hadn’t said a word about fanfiction appearing on his phone.

“Oh, and Tanner was quite the artist in a former life. Make of that what you will,” M completed, and waved Bond out of the office.

Bond listened to a high-pitched, furious yell from down the corridor. “Another of Moneypenny’s,” M mused aloud; his own phone rang, and the humour died quite abruptly. “Thank you, Bond,” he said curtly, reaching to answer with a single syllable: “M.”

Bond slid out of the office in time to see Q scream, and blow up a potted plant with a button explosive prototype. It appeared that Q dealt with stress by blowing things up. Really, Bond understood that. He merely contested _what_ was being blown up; in a temper tantrum once, Bond had been responsible for most of an apartment block.

Ah well. Q was young. He had time to grow fully psychotic. To be quite honest, the 00Q debacle was greatly helping his tilt towards insanity.

“At least I now have tangible evidence of what my division can achieve together when they’re motivated,” Q spat. Bond read a few lines of _unbelievably_ pornographic text – and really, who would have thought it of Moneypenny? – and kept his expression stony.

Q had already blown up a plant. God knew what he would do next.

-

Q worked non-stop for forty-eight hours. Regardless of the childishness of his branch, missions took priority; several active worldwide assignments needed monitoring, technology was a constant theme, and at the end of it, Q had finally succeeded in blocking the fanfiction that appeared every half hour on the dot.

He was still struggling with his main computer’s screensaver. He simply hadn’t had the time to devote to killing the online fandom. He was working on too many fronts, and failing on most.

The best moment of the entire two days was when Q successfully hijacked the entirety of British radio and television, and blocked the ‘Skyfall’ theme song, which had been playing on loop for the past week. Everybody in MI6 knew it, by now. There were rumours that even the PM had been heard to hum along to it, a thought which made Q growl aloud.

He was getting ready to go home. It was all he wanted. He wanted sleep, and freedom from drawings and words and headcanons about him and Bond. He wanted to never hear or see or _think_ about cats again. The fandom was just teeming with goddamn cats.

“Morning Quentin,” Moneypenny trilled at him. Q flicked her the finger. Quentin. He couldn’t _imagine_ who had seen fit to decide that his real name was _Quentin_. He was the goddamn _Quartermaster_ , hence Q. His real name had _nothing to do_ with the initial ‘Q’.

Everybody wolf-whistled when Bond walked into Q-branch. The distant ‘ _oohs_ ’ when Bond and Q were alone and his office could be heard above ground.

“This is the end…” hummed a voice from one the front few rows of computers; Q didn’t hear it, concerned instead with imparting information to Bond, quickly, and getting him the hell out of Q-branch.

“Radio transmitter,” Q explained, reaching to Bond’s ear to place it in properly. There was a ripple of interest at even the physical contact; Q blushed an interesting shade of pink, and ducked away as fast as he possibly could.

“Hold your breath and count to ten…”

“This gun is, once again, coded to your palm-print, try not to feed it to a Komodo Dragon again…”

“Feel the earth move and then…” another voice. Bond had tuned in by this point; the singing was far from expert, but Q-branch appeared to all be taking certain lines each. Probably so that no single person could be caught, and then be culpable.

“Hear my heart burst again…”

Four different people now. Either Q hadn’t noticed, or was quite intentionally ignoring it; Bond was more inclined to believe the former. Q could be very single-minded when he wanted to be, and the focus on his equipment may have been enough to blot out the song.

“For this is the end…”

Bond was trying very hard not to laugh. If he laughed, there was a decent possibility that Q would kill him on the spot. He could do it. Bond had found his files; Q had a ridiculously high level of combat training. He also worked with weapons, and knew how to use them. Q was many things. ‘Lethal’ was quite definitely one of them.

“I've drowned and dreamt this moment…” a very talented voice, somebody with a lovely vocal tone. Bond blinked. He really had to concentrate.

“So overdue I owe them…”

Q had noticed; Bond could see the slight pink tinge over the edge of Q’s ears. 

“Swept away, I'm stolen…”

“If somebody is singing Skyfall, everything you own will be subject to mutilation,” Q snapped, his anger reaching mildly hysterical proportions.

What happened next could not have possibly been predicted. It was entirely Moneypenny’s fault, and she would later completely accept all responsibility for the events that then transpired. Tanner helped. M even got involved in some of the logistics, ensuring that nothing went wrong, and that there were enough people still on hand to keep MI6 running.

“I’m going to _kill_ her,” Q rasped breathlessly, as the entirety of Q-branch started singing, or playing the backing parts on their computers, depending on their level of respective singing ability.

Q was just about ready to cry.

Bond had not been warned. He wished somebody had had the foresight to warn him, really; Q was a very volatile person to anger or upset. It was utterly _moronic_ to upset him, to this degree, on his own home territory.

Q walked into his office, slammed the door. “I’d take cover,” Bond calmly advised Moneypenny, who had been aiding and abetting from behind the door. Bond himself walked into R’s office, and barricaded himself inside.

It took all of five minutes for Q-branch to start hammering down the doors, begging for forgiveness, pleading for Q to restore everything they owned back it’s original format. It took seven minutes for M to get involved, querying why several worldwide media platforms had shut down.

In another ten minutes, it was more than feasible that Q would have shut down the entire bloody internet.

Q and R’s offices had an interconnecting door; it made life easier, when working on parallel projects. Q had locked it; Bond snorted slightly, wondering why he had bothered, as he shot two bullets through the lock.

The office was a tornado. Q was running from place to place, carting about tablets and returning to his desktop intermittently, typing wildly, glasses glinting with reflections of each lit electronic item.

“ _Get out, Bond!_ ” Q screamed at him; Bond, with his new palm-printed gun, wasn’t that impressed.

“Really, I think this has got to the point of protesting too much,” Bond told him shortly.

With that, he walked to Q. He placed his hands on either side of him, spinning him around. Q had enough time to look extremely frightened, before Bond kissed him.

Q didn’t push him away.

Bond finally pushed Q back again. Both were breathing rather heavily. Q’s face had taken on another interesting shade – and really, Bond had to note that Q had turned every shade of the rainbow over the course of this ‘00Q’ debacle – and he didn’t seem to be overwhelmingly upset about the new development.

“Well then,” Q managed, after a few moments. “Crisis averted, congratulations. I’ll leave the rest of the internet in peace, for now.”

Bond rolled his eyes. Q gave a mild yelp of surprise as Bond grabbed him, kissed him again. “You have _zero_ finesse,” Q mumbled against Bond’s lips.

“That’s a first,” Bond snorted, and pushed Q to the floor behind his desk.

-

Q-branch got bored of hammering on the door after a while. They started fixing things themselves, very nicely, as it happened. They had never had quite so much practise in aspects of equipment retrieval, defence against internal and external attacks, how to put out small fires in Q-branch without panicking.

The servers Q hijacked recovered themselves, and continued to tick along nicely. 00Q survived, and the fandom fought against their favourite sites temporarily dying, posting an slew of new fan creations all at once.

The internet survived another day.

Bond and Q emerged from Q’s office together, a long while later. Both attempted to look nonchalant. Both of them didn’t notice that Bond’s flies were undone, or that Q’s hair was everywhere.

Q made Moneypenny’s life absolute hell for the next few weeks, until M intervened. One of the Q-branch kids – the one with the gorgeous voice – ended up singing at the Christmas party, to everybody’s delight.

Bond and Q moved in together three months later. 

They gave up fighting the 00Q fandom. Really, they knew when they were beaten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shouldn't enjoy this so much. In YEARS of fanfic, this is the first pure crack!fic I've ended up writing. So thank you for that, if nothing else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi doll, I’m communicating to request a 00Q fill in which Q and Bond share a blog that writes fanfiction about Jen and Lex. Amicalement, Lea
> 
> Yeah, so this happened on our prompt-fill blog... ahem. Lex, for those not in the loop, is my long-term partner in all conceivable senses, including romantic and indeed writing. ENJOY.

Q settled back, a thin smirk on his face. “Check, and mate,” he said happily, showing Bond the screen.

Jen and Lex had been the bane of their existence for several months now; for various reasons, mostly sadism-related, there was a blog entirely devoted to absurd fanfiction on Q and Bond’s relationship. Most of which was painfully innacurate, and some which crossed into actively insulting.

Bond glanced over it. “You’re… that’s brilliant,” Bond said, with mild shock, and started to read.

-

 **Lex** : At least they have the name of the ship correct

 _Jen_ : We don’t HAVE a ship. Who the hell even are these people?!

 **Lex** :I like Jex… Len would have sounded odd… And they seem to be fans, at least.

 _Jen **:**_  Jex is weird. This is all weird.

 **Lex:** They clearly don’t know what we look like - I do not have ‘long dark locks’. Nor do you wear that much lipstick.

 _Jen_ : I don’t wear lipstick, no… I mean, should we be flattered? I mean, it looks like you’re stellar in bed. Which I’m not disputing, for the record.

 **Lex:** Good.

 _Jen_ : And I’m surprisingly hot, so… should we let this happen? I mean, a part of me thinks we should do something about it.

 **Lex:**  You are hot and meh, beats porn… I mean, yes, of course. Let’s find these stalkers via some complex plot device

 _Jen_ : Plot device: I can hack. Really well.

 _Jen_ : Are we meta-writing?

 **Lex** : Possibly

 _Jen_ : Look, look at me hack! I LEARNT A NEW LIFE SKILL! I like writing fanfic of us, this is fun.

 **Lex:** You can’t hack, you can barely work i-tunes

 _Jen_  Fuck off, can now, it’s fictional.

 **Lex** : Well if you can hack I want something. Something useful

 _Jen_ : I’m not giving you flying. I’m just not. I know you’ll want it, but no. You can… make decent coffee? Ianto-style? You look good in a suit, after all.

 **Lex:** I do yes, though apparently you are a bombshell in heels. They clearly have not seen our onesies.

 **Lex** : I mean, you are a bombshell.

 _Jen_ : Only in the sense of blowing up buildings and causing mass destruction.

 _Jen:_ So - we’re leaving this, the blog thing. Leave it in cyberspace and hope for the best?

 **Lex:**  I suppose. I mean, we’re hardly able to do anything about it. We could report them, I guess?

 _Jen:_  Could do… ah, sod it. They’re being quite sweet about it, I suppose. Leave them to it, at least for now.

-

Q and Bond growled in almost unison.

"Fuck."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> For Lex. Jen.


End file.
